Explosions of Vendetta
by Leibchen
Summary: The movie delved too little into Evey and V's blooming relationship. So I've taken it upon myself to concoct a few tender scenes of my own. Still in beta mode, all concrit welcome.


This is Evey Hammond, 23 years old, wise beyond her years and braver than some men. By some fortunate or unfortunate circumstances she happened upon the man who addressed himself simply as V. He had saved her from an unfortunate fate at the hands of the Fingermen, saved her from arrest and death by guilt of treason and brought her, at or against her own will, to his home. 

Over the Shadow Gallery, despite candles and various lamps being constantly lit, loomed an ominous, stifling atmosphere, but Evey quickly found herself fascinated by its many bizarre and exotic artifacts, which lined the walls and crowded the various rooms surrounding the main hall. She chided herself for being nosy, but nevertheless found herself wandering them one by one, examining the items in awe. V smiled inwardly with a silent satisfaction at her curiosity and allowed her to roam freely throughout his home.

He had done his best since her coming to make her feel comfortable. Breakfast was always ready within minutes of her waking. Hot water and other amenities were never lacking, nor of things to do. In one sector of the Gallery was a library, small in comparison to the vast libraries found outside its hidden walls, but varied and interesting as the other items housed in the Gallery. In V's absence, Evey had spent a few evenings poring over the titles, running her fingers over their velvet spines. Her favorites were those of such inspired wordsmiths as Mervyn Peake, Edgar Allen Poe and more modern writers as Harper Lee.

But her favorite sector of the Gallery was the corner was the one in which stood a stately wardrobe of dark wood, surrounded by dozens of dressmaker's dolls, all clothed in garb from every century: A kimono worn by a concubine of the Tang Dynasty, a voluptuous dress of silk and velvet from the Elizabethan era, a man's velvet coat and ruffled shirt from the Colonial period, a rolled white wig sitting upon the doll's head, a flapper's bright red frock, complete with fine fringe along the hemline. Among these heirlooms, seemingly without its own story, stood a narrow-shouldered mannequin sporting a velvet men's blazer of the palest gray, with matching silver buttons adorning the lapels. White embroidery embellished the cuffs of the sleeves and around the collar. This was by far her favorite, and whenever her wanderings brought her to this particular section, she was always drawn to the jacket, her fingers running over the soft fabric. She always made a mental note to ask V about the jacket, but never quite seemed to remember upon his return.

One particular morning unlike all the others, V and Evey sat down to breakfast, the conversation light and un-foreboding as usual. He never actually ate, to do so would require removal of the mask guarding his scarred visage. He asked her about her endeavors about the Gallery, and Evey described with enthusiasm the items she had found recently. V smiled behind the hard plastic mask, pleased his home caused her at least some modicum of pleasure. Evey sat down her glass, remembering at last the fine jacket in the Wardrobe Hall.

"V." she said, gazing at him seriously.

"Yes, Evey."

"The silver jacket that's in the hall with all the clothing."

"What of it?"

"What's the story behind it? Everything else seems to clearly have a story, but I can't place the jacket. Where is it from?"

V smiled. "Ah yes, the silver jacket. Come with me to the Wardrobe Hall, and I shall explain." V rose from the table and offered his arm, and Evey obliged, allowing herself to be lead to the south corner of the Gallery where the mahogany wardrobe stood.

"You like it, yes?" Evey smiled.

"It's beautiful." She stepped forward and ran a finger along the right cuff, admiring once more the fine stitching.

"That jacket was the very one worn by Dorian Gray in the famed portrait he had painted of himself. The very portrait that caused his demise." V said seriously. Evey raised her eyebrows and stared at the masked man.

"Dorian Gray? He actually existed?"

"Of course. You cannot believe that he was just a figment of Oscar Wilde's imagination. Dorian Gray was very real, Evey."

"Where did you get it?" Evey questioned, still dumbfounded.

"It fell into the hands of one of his servants, one of those still housing loving thoughts of him. Eventually it passed from owner to owner, and through a fortunate series of circumstances, fell into my keeping." V extended his arm once more. "Come, I have something else to show you."

Evey took the offered arm was led back toward the center of the gallery, across the hall in which hung various works of art, the wall housing them adorned on either side by long velvet curtains.

"A warning, Evey. Keep your arm about mine, as what I'm about to show you may be a bit of a shock." That said, V took a hold of the cord hanging from one of the enormous hangings. Evey took in a breath and tightened her arm around V's. The man gave a tug on the cord, and the red velvet moved aside to reveal a large, dark portrait, in which was portrayed the youthful visage of Dorian Gray.

Evey gasped. "My God! The portrait is real!" she breathed.

"Yes, in all its ghastliness." V said gravely. "The portrait itself is beautiful yes, you know the story behind it."

Evey nodded. "He was very handsome..."

"Yes.." V said musingly. "His tragic flaw was that he was all too aware of it, and that narcissism, as you know, is what caused his untimely demise."

Evey stared at the portrait, unable to tear her eyes away. The young man's eyes were of deep blue, his hair of the palest yellow, his skin fair and seemingly unblemished by adolescence. It was the eyes that drew her. Despite their lovely color, they were piercing, unloving, staring out through the canvas and oil with a frigid apathy. Evey forced herself to blink and turned her head.

"Please cover it up..." she said haltingly. "His eyes.."

"Yes.. they are quite unnerving, aren't they.." V mused and obliged, covering the wicked painting again. Relieved, Evey took in a breath.

"If Dorian Gray was real..." she mused. "I fear who else's likenesses are under that fabric."

"You are free to reveal them in the future if you like, but you will have to venture past the Gray portrait alone. I wish not to see the faces that lie beyond these curtains." V said resolutely, and Evey knew that was that. The grandfather clock in the main hall chimed, and V patted Evey's hand and removed it from his arm.

"The streets of London wait, I have much to do tonight." V said a smile invisible to the girl in front of him appearing on his face. "I trust you'll be able to keep yourself busy while I'm away. I shall be back by morning.. Try not to stay up too late." he added as an afterthought. Evey smirked.

"Says the self-imposed night-owl." she smiled and V turned to go, striding into the entry hall and pulling his cloak off a hook.

"Be careful!" she called, and V nodded at her over his shoulder, opening the massive wooden door and stepping out. Evey heard the solid deadbolt slide into place behind him, and a second later, a metallic click. The Gallery was safe, vacuum-sealed against the darkness of London and unwanted intruders alike.

Evey sighed as she perused the titles once again the Library. Too many choices. She had already finished the Gormenghast series and decided against the Fountainhead, one of the more modern titles along the shelves. She'd gotten twenty pages in and realized she hadn't absorbed a word of any of it. It took more concentration to understand Rand's prose than she had had the attention span for lately.

Eventually settling down on the long chaise lounge chair with Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, her legs under a comforter, Evey found herself unable to concentrate. The haunting visage of the Gray portrait diverted her attention still, and after fifteen minutes of reading without absorbing a word, Evey took a breath and folded the book open on the chair.

Her feet led her back to the Portrait gallery, her emotions a mix of anticipation and anxiety. She paused in front of the curtain which hid the Gray portrait. Taking a steady breath, she tugged on the cord, and the picture was once again revealed. It was, to her relief, less frightening than it had been earlier, and, slightly braver, Evey moved to the opposite side and pulled on the cord to the end of its length, and two more portraits were revealed.

One she had seen before, the movie poster of the Salt Flats. The faces in it were so youthful and beautiful, Evey felt her eyes mist at the cruelty of what had happened to them. Her eyes wandered to the two other faces on the wall. She recognized neither. One was a young man, not older than she was now: broad-shouldered and brown eyed, and wearing a black tuxedo-style jacket. His face was a mix of amusement and seriousness, but there was a faint look in his eyes that suggested maturity beyond the years his face suggested. Evey regarded the portrait seriously, wondering what significance this particular painting held for V.

The woman in the picture next to him held the same mystery. The two were obviously related. She had the same dark brown eyes, though hers held a mirth that suggested optimism as opposed to the jaded look in the man's. Her hair was piled in a delicate upsweep. She was dressed in a frock of some shiny material, simple in the cut and sewing.

Underneath both portraits were small gold plaques with inscriptions. Evey stepped closer to eye the one under the young man's.

"Victor Rosen." Evey said aloud, wondering who in the world this person could be. She turned to the mother's - or at least, she had assumed the woman was the mother, she looked too old to be his wife - plaque.

"Julia Rosen... 1950-1980.." Evey frowned. "Possible family members?" She straightened and pulled the curtain over the portraits once again. She would have to ask V about it in the morning. As she turned to leave, a sneaking realization hit her, and she turned around again and pulled the cord to regard the painting of the man. She read the plaque again and gasped. She had neglected to read below the name.

"Victor Rosen.. 1970-" The date of death, if any, was absent. Evey's mouth fell open.

She had never seen his face. The only clue thing she had to go by was the sound of his voice, the gestures of hands, the posture in which he held himself. V had never allowed her to remove the mask which hid his face, despite her goading. He had called himself a monster, insisting what lay hidden behind the mask was too horrible, something she should not be exposed to. She would fear him should she see it, he had said, and prefer she think of him as she did now, not as the monster he would become should she be allowed to see beyond the plastic.

And yet she was sure the face she saw on the canvas painting now was V as he was years ago, before the corruption of London had begun, or perhaps a few years in, judging from the premature aged look in the eyes. The posture of the man in the portrait was the same, she noted, stiff backed, neck high.

"I was an arrogant youth." Evey gasped and turned around. V stood before her, his cloak missing.

"V.. I, I'm sorry, if you didn't want me to see this-" "No, the Gallery is yours to explore, and I'm sure you would have seen this eventually... yes.. that was me. Years ago.."

Evey touched the glass housing the portrait with a fingertip, her eyes moving over the high cheekbones, the long aristocratic nose and the bemused eyes. "I knew... I suddenly realized I knew who this is."

"Was." V said stonily. "I am not that man anymore. I do not regret anything that has happened in my life but for the one fact that I was not able to stay as I was as a young man." V let out a sigh, something Evey rarely heard him do. "But enough melodrama for one night." He stepped forward and shrouded the paintings once again and took Evey's arm.

"What do you think, m'lady: Gone With the Wind again, or shall we look for something different in the reels tonight?"

Author's Notes: It's been a while since I've done any writing, so getting back into the literary groove, this one isn't perfect yet. All constructive criticism is appreciated but by no means required. Flames as usual will be met with hostility. :) Also, pointing out any continuity/ plot / character errors that I've made helps. The second chapter is in the dreaming stages, and will be completely different in plot than the first. These are meant to be kind of like deleted scenes from the movie. Enjoy!


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